


Prussian Blue

by siriusblue



Series: In A Hundred Lifetimes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sally Donovan & Greg Lestrade Friendship, Sally is a very good friend, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, dark secrets, poet mycroft, virgin Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-06 05:31:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12810666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: AU. Greg Lestrade is a bookshop owner in 1960's Soho. When he finds that his favourite poet, the reclusive Mycroft Holmes,  is publishing a new collection he moves  heaven and earth to get him to do a recital at his shop. He doesn't realise his life will never be the same again afterwards.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sona007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sona007/gifts).



> This came from a fic prompt on Tumblr when @iwritemystrade asked 'I wish you would write a fic where Mycroft is an artist those work Greg admires. When he finally gets to meet his favourite painter/poet/writer, Greg falls in love at first sight'
> 
> A chance to write Virgin!Greg and a Mycroft with a dark secret? Hold my beer....

PRUSSIAN BLUE

  


Summary -1960s AU. Greg Lestrade is happy with his life as a bookseller. When he finds out that his favourite poet, the reclusive Mycroft Holmes, is publishing a new collection Greg moves heaven and earth to have Mycroft do a reading/Q&A at his bookshop. 

  


CHAPTER ONE

  


Sally Donovan closed the shop door after the last of the poetry group had left and turned to Greg Lestrade with a wicked grin.

  


“They're definitely getting better. And look how many more people turned up! You're going to need new chairs at this rate, Greg “

  


Greg Lestrade returned her grin with an engaging one of his own.

  


“Some of them have real talent,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “Who'd have guessed?”

  


“Oh, don't be such an Oxbridge snob! “ she yelled, her dark eyes firing up for battle.

  


“I'm not!” said Greg, raising his hands in surrender. “All I'm saying is, it's a lovely surprise. I didn't think so many people would be interested in reading and writing poetry, that's all.”

  


“Apart from you,you mean?”

  


“Precisely. It's been an interesting six months.”

  


Sally slipped on her coat.

  


“Come on then. You can buy me a drink.”

  


As they made to leave Greg's bookshop, he noticed the new copy of The Bookseller magazine on the counter next to the till and slipped it into his overcoat pocket.

  


They were soon ensconced at a tiny table in a nearby Soho pub. Sally was reapplying her lipstick when Greg returned from the bar with a port and lemon and a pint of bitter.

  


“Cheers,” she said, clinking glasses with him.

  


Greg was aware he was attracting some envious looks for Sally was a real beauty with her large dark eyes and cafe-au-lait skin and her legs in the mini she was wearing would make anyone stop for a second look.

  


He had met her two years ago when she came into his shop looking for a copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover. Normally shy to the point of being speechless,  Greg had found her incredibly easy to talk to and he had asked her out to the pictures, amazed at his own daring.  And it was in a pub like this one, four months later, when she had confronted him, not demanding but merely asking about his true nature.

  


“I adore you.” he had told her. “But you have surmised correctly. I'm an invert, Sally. Attracted to men. Not that i’ve ever…” he had blushed at this point, too embarrassed to continue.

  


“We can still be friends though, can't we?” she had asked and he had been almost tearful in his relief at her acceptance of what he was. “You're the most interesting man I know. Most blokes can only talk about football and then try to get your knickers off. I can talk to you.”

  


“I think I'd like that more than anything,” he had confessed.

  


And that had been that. It has been Sally's idea to start the poetry evenings, he would have been far too shy and self-conscious to even contemplate such a thing himself, but he had been impressed by how popular they were becoming, purely through word of mouth.

  


It was an incredible time to be alive, Greg mused. Sexual revolution, much more personal freedom and, for him, a resurgence in new poetry. For Greg Lestrade, poetry was life. He had devoured the works of the new breed of poets; Ginsberg, Kerouac and others, but in his opinion the finest of them all was Mycroft Holmes.

  


The man's style was pellucid. He had published collection of poems last year, there were various themes all of which touched Greg deeply, as all great literature should. The last in the collection, Prussian Blue, spoke of love and loss and had made Greg shed the only tears he had cried since the death of his father.

  


The man himself was more of an enigma, a noted recluse who shunned all publicity, which made him all the more interesting.

  


“Oi! “ a kick in the shin with a pointed stiletto brought Greg swiftly back to the present.”Stop woolgathering!”

  


“Sorry, miles away. Fancy another?”

  


Sally shook her head decisively. “I'd better not. I've got two perms first thing in the morning. Will you walk me home, kind sir?”

  


“My pleasure, Miss Donovan, “ he replied, his courtly gesture slightly spoiled when she stuck her tongue out at him and grinned. 

  


“Lucky bastard,” he heard one man mutter as they left the pub.

  


Greg walked Sally to the flat she shared with another girl, a hairdresser at the same salon and hugged her goodnight before making his way back to Soho and his flat above the shop.

  


He made himself a cup of tea and sat down to read his magazine, leafing through the trade adverts and reviews. When he came to the Forthcoming Publications page, he almost dropped his cup in excitement.

  


AZIMUTH. A NEW COLLECTION OF POEMS BY MYCROFT HOLMES.

  


His heart pounding, Greg read on to discover that the the collection would be published that week by Austin Press.

  


“My,” murmured Greg, “You've moved into the big leagues, Mr Holmes. Good for you.”

  


He almost missed the bit which stated that Mycroft Holmes was now being represented by James Dimmock.

  


“Bloody hell!”

  


Greg and he had been at Oxford together and had been friends. Real life after university had seen them drift apart, but they still exchanged Christmas cards.

  


An idea arrived in Greg's head which he dismissed as preposterous, but the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. Resolving to act on it, if it still seemed sensible in the morning, Greg went to bed.

  


Next morning, after he had opened the shop, Greg made a phone call. When it was answered he asked to be put through to James Dimmock.

  


“Greg!” exclaimed a cheerful voice at the other end of a crackling phone line. “ How are you? Still in Soho?”

  


“Yes,” replied Greg. “The shop is thriving.”

  


“That's good to hear. So what can I do for you?”

  


“Mycroft Holmes. He's got a new collection of poems out soon. How do you think he'd feel about doing a reading at my shop? Short Q&A afterwards, champagne and nibbles for the invited audience, that sort of thing.”

  


“He'd hate it, I'll tell you now.”

  


“Can you at least ask him? For old times sake? I'm a huge fan of his, James.”

  


“Okay, I'll ask, but don't blame me if he says no.”

  


“Thanks, James. I owe you.”

  


Well satisfied, Greg hung up the phone. 

  


Sally’s eyes were like saucers when he told her what he'd done when she dropped in at lunchtime.

  


“Wow, Greg. It'd be like Paul McCartney coming to my place for a haircut.”

  


He laughed and then said.

  


“Will you come? I might need you there to stop me making a fool of myself. If it actually happens.”

  


“Try and stop me,” she snorted.

  


It was almost closing time when the shop phone rang.

  


“Lestrade's of Soho. Can I help you?”

  


“I hope so. I need to speak to...dear lord this man's handwriting is appalling...Geoffrey Lestrade.” The voice was very public school with a warm note.

  


“It's Gregory, actually. And that's me. How may I help you?”

  


“My name is Mycroft Holmes.” Greg nearly dropped the receiver in shock.” You were speaking to my agent about a recital at your shop?”

  


“Er,  yes, well, um…” stuttered Greg. “It would be an honour.” he concluded, getting a grip on himself. “ I'm a huge admirer of your work, Mr Holmes. It would be by invitation only, a maximum of twenty people at the most.”

  


“I don't normally do that kind of thing. Where is your shop?”

  


“Soho. Next to Zalman's Coffee Emporium.”

  


“Very well. If you can arrange it for next Friday, I will attend. I've been told that I need to expand my public profile. Small steps to begin with. Starting next Friday.”

  


“I'll arrange it and let James know the details. Thank you, Mr Holmes. It'll be an honour to have you.”

  


“Tell me that again afterwards. Till next Friday, Mr Lestrade.” and he hung up.

  


Greg could not believe his luck. He was finally going to meet his hero.

  


This was a night he would remember for the rest of his life, he was sure.

  
TBC  



	2. Friday Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a big night for Greg as he meets the mysterious Mycroft Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N warnings etc in Chapter One

FRIDAY NIGHT

 

Friday night had arrived at long last. Fortnums had delivered the food and champagne, the shop had been dusted and hoovered to within an inch of its life, the chairs had been set out in two semi-circular rows and Greg was climbing the walls. Sally did her best to soothe him as he stalked up and down the carpet.

 

“Greg, calm down. You'll give yourself a heart attack!”

 

He stopped pacing and looked at her with a distraught expression.

 

“What if he doesn't turn up? I'll look like a right idiot. What if he's horrible to everyone? I'll never live it down!”

 

“It's his loss if he doesn't come. And if he doesn't, we'll just have a party without him. Come on, Greg. Whatever happens, it'll be fine.”

 

“I hope you're right,” said Greg grimly as there was a knock at the shop door.

 

The invited guests trickled in, most of the poetry group and a few fellow bookshop owners. A tall younger man with dark hair introduced himself as Philip Anderson, the Arts and Culture correspondent for the Soho Gazette. 

 

“This is quite a coup, Mr Lestrade.” he said, shaking Greg's hand. “Mycroft Holmes!. He's one of the most elusive men in literature. How on earth did you manage it?”

 

“Friends in low places,” muttered Greg. “This is Sally Donovan,” He caught her eye and beckoned his friend over from where she was chatting to Peter Smith, fellow poetry aficionado. “She'll look after you.”

 

Anderson's eyes lit up when he saw Sally, and she smiled in return. 

 

“This is Philip,” said Greg by way of introduction.” He's a reporter. This is Sally. She's a hairdresser.”

 

Sally winced and Greg cursed his lack of people skills, but there appeared to be no harm done as Sally guided the reporter to the seats, patting the one beside her.

 

There was an anticipatory buzz in the room and Greg realised he was sweating. Discreetly, he checked his watch. Five minutes to seven. Maybe Mycroft Holmes liked to make an entrance. Maybe he'd missed his bus. Maybe….

 

Greg's train of thought was derailed by a light touch on his shoulder. He spun round as a familiar voice said

 

“I'm looking for Gregory Lestrade.”

 

The speaker was taller than Greg by an inch or two. His dark red hair was neatly parted to the right and his eyes, behind a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, were pale blue. He wore a tweed suit over a pristine white shirt and he had a book in his left hand.

 

“Mr Holmes?” asked Greg, trying not to stare.  He hadn't been too sure what to expect. This man dressed like an Oxford don, yet no don Greg had ever seen looked as beautiful as him.

 

“Mycroft, please. May I call you Gregory?” asked Mycroft as they shook hands. 

 

“Yes, of course.” Greg pointed to the area where the audience were chatting amongst themselves and paying him no attention.

 

“I hope this set-up is alright. If you want, I can change it. Can I get you anything before we start? “

 

Mycroft declined with a shake of his head then smiled. Greg's pulse rate rocketed again.

 

“Everything is fine, Gregory. We can begin whenever you're ready.”

 

Greg nodded and clapped his hands together to get everyone's attention.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen. I give you Mycroft Holmes.”

 

Greg stood back and watched as, being politely applauded, Mycroft crossed the room and sat in the chair facing his audience and crossed one elegant leg over the other.

 

“Good evening, “ he began, his upper-class tone audible to everyone present. “I imagine you are all here because you know of my work. I'm here tonight to apprise you of some of my new poems and I will answer whatever questions you may have about the work afterwards. “

 

Pausing only to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Mycroft opened the crimson-backed book he had been holding and began to read.

 

Greg stood at the back, his arms folded, leaning against a bookcase stuffed with crime novels and let Mycroft's words wash over him. These poems were even better than the last lot. You could have heard a pin drop in that room, so intensely was everyone listening, but Greg's eyes were on the author, heat rising in his face as Mycroft looked at him periodically, a small smile on his lips every time they made eye contact.

 

“And that, “ concluded Mycroft, “Is the whole of it. Azimuth. However, I would like to conclude with a favourite of mine.” He cleared his throat, no need for a paper copy of something clearly engraved on his soul. A delighted sigh, quickly muffled, rose as he spoke the first line of  Prussian Blue.

 

Greg's eyes filled as Mycroft continued to speak; a break in his voice as he wove his poem again, so full of the real pain of loss and things unsaid.

 

When he concluded, to as much rapturous applause as twenty people could make, Greg dried his eyes before anyone could see.

 

The question and answer session was lively and Mycroft answered with all the grace he could muster. Greg noticed how he avoided anything that could be considered personal, but the audience gave him a standing ovation.

 

Sally was by Greg's side as the refreshments were served and her eyes were shining.

 

“Wasn't he brilliant?” She punched Greg on the arm. “Told you you had nothing to be worried about!”

 

Greg, watching Mycroft with his long fingers clutching a champagne flute and conversing with one of the poetry group, wasn't sure about that at all. Mycroft caught his eye, the corners of his mouth curling upwards.

 

God help me, thought Greg. I want him.

 

Greg had always believed that love at first sight belonged in those stupid romance novels that he sold in their hundreds. Currently he was revising his position. Love, lust, whatever the hell was making his clothes feel two sizes too small for him, was all over him like a tent and there was no way he could clarify it on three glasses of champagne on the emptiest stomach in London.

 

“Philip’s going to walk me home,” Sally informed him.

 

Greg kissed her on the cheek. “If you can't be good, be careful.” he said as he watched them leave. 

 

The whole evening was drawing to a natural close, people leaving in ones and twos until Greg was left alone with a slightly bemused Mycroft  Holmes.

 

“Can I get you a taxi, Mycroft?” he asked.

 

“I'm not in any hurry, Gregory. Let me help you tidy up.”

 

“That's not necessary.”

 

“Oh, I insist. It's the least I can do.”

 

Greg didn't object as Mycroft helped him stack the chairs and return the glasses, bottles and plates to their respective boxes to be picked up by Fortnums, particularly when Mycroft's hands brushed his too often for it to be accidental.

 

He poured the final two glasses from the last bottle and they sat on the chairs in the reading nook; high wingback leather seats that had proved too comfortable sometimes.

 

“You have a lovely shop,” said Mycroft admiringly. “This is the kind of bookshop I could spend days in.”

 

“Thank you. I do my best.”

 

Mycroft smiled at him teasingly. 

 

“Just as long as you were there to...help me.”

 

There was a definite sultry note in Mycroft's voice as he leaned closer to Greg. Greg wasn't such an innocent that he didn't know when he was being flirted with, but he wasn't entirely sure what to do next.

 

“ It all depends on what you like,” he pronounced, getting somewhat unsteadily to his feet and walking over to a bookcase filled with poetical biographies. “I've got Wordsworth, Byron…”

 

“I prefer something else,” said a voice in his ear. Mycroft had followed him and was standing behind him.

 

Greg turned to see the desire he was feeling mirrored in Mycroft's eyes.

 

Something like this,” murmured Mycroft as he leant in and brushed his lips against Greg's.

 

TBC


	3. After The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg should have known real life isn't like a romance novel at all

AFTER THE PARTY

Greg was taken aback. He really hadn't expected things to move so fast, but Mycroft's lips felt like warm silk against his and he couldn't help but respond, relaxing into his first proper kiss. 

Mycroft's eyes were shining when they broke for air.

“You're very sweet,” he said, slipping his arms around Greg's waist and pulling him close. “Very sweet.”

“I have absolutely no idea what to do,” confessed Greg. He wasn't sure where to put his hands so he rested them on Mycroft's shoulders.

Mycroft looked surprised but then smiled.

“Don't tell me someone as perfect as you is still a virgin?” he asked.

Greg nodded, blushing furiously.

“I thought virgins were like dragons and unicorns in this day and age,” mused Mycroft. “Mythical. Have you even kissed a man before?”

“Two minutes ago,” said Greg, still  
unable to look Mycroft in the eye.

“Good gracious. I hope you liked it.”

Greg found his courage and looked squarely at Mycroft.

“I did. And I want to do it again. In fact I want to do more than kiss you.”

“You only had to ask, Gregory,” said Mycroft. “And don't worry, I know exactly what to do.” His smile became positively wolfish. “If I don't snap you up, I shudder to think of who might leave their filthy fingerprints all over you. Come here.”

Mycroft drew Greg close to him and they kissed for a second time. This time was much more passionate, Mycroft's tongue exploring Greg's mouth as his hands roamed over Greg's back, sliding down to cup the cheeks of his arse.

Greg's cock was like iron and he instinctively rubbed against Mycroft, his breathing audible in the silent bookshop.

“We need somewhere more private,” murmured Mycroft, nuzzling the skin of Greg's neck.

“Flat. Upstairs.” Lust was making Greg incoherent.

He practically dragged Mycroft out of the shop, pausing only to lock the door behind him. He had just put his key in the lock of his flat when Mycroft grasped his arm.

Greg turned to look at him and felt his heart sink. Mycroft's expression had gone from anticipation to something approaching panic.

What's wrong?” asked Greg.

“I'm sorry, Gregory.” He looked distraught now. “ I can't do this, I'm sorry. Not again.Not to you.”

And he turned and fled. 

Greg stood on his doorstep, shame and desire running through his veins like molten lead. He made no effort to pursue Mycroft,or enter his flat, just stood there with his head bowed.

“Bugger this!” he exclaimed finally and set off at a brisk pace. He hoped that when reached his destination he might get some answers. It wasn't a long walk, but it was long enough for his erection to subside and for him to collect his scattered thoughts.

He climbed the communal stairs and knocked at the door of number 27.

“Who’s there?” asked a female voice.

“It’s Greg. Can I come in?”

Sally ‘s flatmate opened the door and ushered him into the tiny living room.

“I'll get her,” said Alice. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Greg sat on the sagging sofa and waited. Sally came bouncing into the room in a quilted dressing gown and her hair in rollers.

“What a night! “ she exclaimed, before Greg could even open his mouth. “Philip is taking me to see the Rolling Stones next week. He's really nice. And we got to see and hear Mycroft Holmes! He's absolutely incredible.”

Then she saw the stricken expression on Greg's face and her smile vanished.

“What happened?” she asked.

Falteringly, he told her what has happened after she left; the kiss, the promise of sex and then…

“He changed his mind in the space of, what, three feet? Why?”

“I don't know,” admitted Greg.”Was my being a virgin what put him off? Or did he just not fancy me? Ow!”

He rubbed his arm where Sally had slapped him. “What was that for?”

“Greg Lestrade, you're an idiot. He would have to be blind not to fancy you. You're gorgeous. Those big puppy-dog eyes and that smile...I'd have had you myself ages ago if you were that way inclined. He probably just lost his nerve. Better that than disappointing sex, trust me.”

“No, it was more than that. I mean, he was really keen and so was I. Oh, I don't know. And it wouldn't have been disappointing, not on my part. Sally, if I wanted a casual fuck I could have had one any time. There are plenty places I could have gone for that. I wanted my first time to be with someone I cared about, someone I was really attracted to. And I thought I'd found that someone tonight. Just proves I know nothing about relationships.”

Sally patted the arm she had just slapped. “I'll put the kettle on,” she said. “Sit tight. This could be a long session.”

When she came back into the living room with two mugs of tea, she found Greg fast asleep on the sofa, champagne and extreme emotions having taken their toll

She fetched a blanket from her bedroom and covered him with it, switched off the lights and went to bed.

Greg was mortified the next morning but the two girls just gently teased him and fed him tea and toast before they all left for work.

As Greg unlocked the shop he resolved not to think about what had happened there last night and set about parcelling up books to take to the post office and filling in forms to order new stock. The day passed quickly for which he was grateful. Five o'clock chimed in the wall clock and Greg was just thinking of shutting up shop when the bell above the shop door tickled again.

“I'm just about to close up,” announced Greg to his new customer as he bent over his accounts book.

“That's what I was hoping for,” said a familiar voice.

Greg straightened up to see Mycroft standing there looking anxious.

“Gregory, I came to apologise,” he began.

“What for,” asked Greg rudely. “You changed your mind, so what?”

“Please. I haven't slept thinking about how appallingly I behaved towards you. The very least you deserve is an explanation “ 

On closer examination, Mycroft did look exhausted and strained, his eyes were bloodshot and there was a hint of red/gold stubble on his chin.

Against his better judgement, Greg nodded. 

“Not here though. I'm starving. You can buy me fish and chips and then we can talk.”

Mycroft looked relieved and meekly followed Greg out the door.

TBC


	4. Mycroft's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes clean about why he rejected Greg, but he's not the only one with a secret.

MYCROFT'S TALE

 

To everyone who has liked and commented on this, thank you so very much. Every comment I get makes me grin like a gameshow host on crack because someone other than me likes what I write. Bless every one of you to the seventh generation.

 

Greg's favourite chippy was a cafe with pretensions. They sat at a Formica-topped table and Mycroft watched in astonishment as Greg ploughed his way through cod, chips, bread and butter and a pot of tea while he toyed unenthusiastically with what was left on his own plate.

 

The fish has been fried to perfection and the chips were crisp and golden, redolent with the smell of vinegar but Mycroft had no appetite.

 

“Okay,” said Greg as he put down his knife and fork and pushed his plate to one side. “You wanted to explain?”

 

Mycroft had just opened his mouth to speak when the waitress appeared at their table to clear it 

 

“Not hungry, love?” she asked Mycroft.

 

“I'm sure it's excellent but I'm not as hungry as I thought”

 

She raised her eyebrows at his reply and they nearly disappeared into her hairline when Mycroft handed her a ten-shilling note and told her to keep the change.

 

“Gregory…”

 

“Do you know what? I'm not sure this is something you should be telling me in public.” He looked at Mycroft, curiosity and invitation rife in his eyes  “Come home with me. We can talk there.”

 

Mycroft was more than willing and followed Greg back to his front door and up the stairs to his flat. The living room was tiny but spotlessly clean. Greg gestured Mycroft into one of the fireside chairs and sat opposite him.

 

Mycroft cleared his throat, his hands clenched together in his lap.

 

“I want you to understand that last night was nothing to do with you. I find you incredibly attractive, Gregory but there are things in my past that have made me so wary of getting involved that I became scared.”

 

“What things?,” asked Greg.

 

“Have you heard of Matthew Wilson?”

 

Greg frowned momentarily then his brow cleared.

 

“Wasn't he a painter? I remember reading something about him a few years ago. He was tipped to be the next Turner but he died, didn't he?”

 

Mycroft nodded.

 

“Yes, it was officially promulgated as a short illness. Unofficially he drank himself to death.”

 

“Why would be do that?” asked Greg.” From what I remember, he didn't exactly fit the “tortured artist” stereotype.”

 

“That's because he wasn't. Matthew Wilson and I were lovers. We met at Cambridge and I fell so hard for him. It wasn't easy but we were happy and had three incredible years. He was going through an abstract phase in his work and Prussian Blue was one of his favourite colours to work with. I would write, he would paint. It was bliss.”

 

Mycroft's eyes had taken on a faraway look as he reminisced and wild horses couldn't have dragged Greg away from the room.

 

“Then we had a fight,” continued Mycroft. “It was stupid and entirely my fault, but stubborn arse that I am, I wouldn't back down. So he left me.”

 

Mycroft looked directly into Greg's eyes as he carried on talking.

 

“The next thing I knew, he'd been arrested. Arrested for gross indecency with another man he has sex with in a public toilet. He did it to hurt me, and he succeeded. He went to prison. I wrote, I tried to visit but he refused my letters and my attempts to see him. Prison killed him, Gregory, despite what it says on his death certificate. His career was ruined, his family disowned him. He thought he had no future.

 

I withdrew from the literary scene completely, without him there was no point.”

 

“I'm so sorry, Mycroft.” said Greg as Mycroft removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. “That must have been so hard for you.”

 

“The worst part of it was that I couldn't mourn him properly and I would never forget that the last words I said to him in this life were vicious ones, the kind intended to hurt. So I made him immortal in poetry. “Prussian Blue” is his elegy “

 

Mycroft stood up and began pacing up and down Greg's living room.

 

“You remind me of him, Gregory.” he said finally. “Not to look at, but the way you have made a happy life for yourself doing what you love, and I envy you your friendships. Then I enter your orbit like some rogue asteroid with the power to disrupt, even destroy you. And for what? One night of pleasure? You are worth far more than that. I give my heart too easily, and I thought the kindest thing to do was leave, but here I am and I can't bear the thought of not seeing you again.”

 

Greg stood up and grasped Mycroft by the upper arms.

 

“Look at me,” he ordered. Mycroft did as he was bid and saw nothing but steely determination in Greg's eyes.

 

“I'm not Matthew.” he said flatly. “What happened was a tragedy but it wasn't your fault. He made his own choices and I am nowhere near as fragile. It’s 1967, Mycroft. We won't go to prison for having sex any more and you can't run away from every chance life offers you to be happy. You like me, you even wanted me. There is nothing wrong with that, especially when I want it as well.”

 

“Why should you be so impassioned on my behalf?” asked Mycroft. Greg smiled.

 

“I'll tell you a secret of my own. I fell in love with your poetry a long time ago because you have the ability to write verse that leaves scorch marks on the reader's soul,but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine falling in love with you. I've laughed at stories of love at first sight until I found myself living in one “

 

Mycroft smiled, his anxious expression clearing for the first time since he had stepped into Greg's flat.

 

“You really mean that, don't you?” He seemed enchanted by the idea. “Even though you don't really know me.”

 

“I know enough. You're warm, witty, intelligent and you are as beautiful as the sin I've never had enough nerve to commit. If you're willing, I can find out the rest as we go along.”

 

“I should be honoured. It will be quite a voyage of discovery for both of us, Gregory.”

 

They embraced and Greg could feel Mycroft's heart beating frantically as he held him.

 

“I have another recital tomorrow,” murmured Mycroft, his breath warm against Greg's ear. “I'd love it if you could be there.”

 

“Try and stop me,” replied Greg. 

 

“And after the recital?” asked Mycroft, trying not to sound too eager.

 

Greg smiled and leaned in to peck Mycroft on the lips 

 

“Why don't we pick up where we left off last night? ”  he suggested.

  
TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Britain, homosexuality was partially decriminalized in 1967 and the fate of Mycroft's Matthew was very common, sadly.


	5. Sunday Night, Monday Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Mycroft's next recital there are no more barriers to overcome. Finally complete.

SUNDAY NIGHT, MONDAY MORNING.

 

A/N: Thanks again to those who liked and commented, I cherish every one. I've loved this AU version of Mystrade and of Greg's innocence, it's been a treat to write. So before the band comes on to drown me out, one last thing...big love to sona007 for the prompt. I hope this filled it for you, my dear.

 

It took Greg a long time to get to sleep after Mycroft left, sweet sipping kisses and the rendezvous arranged for the next night had left him hot eyed and wakeful, so he wasn't exactly at his best when Sally turned up unannounced at his flat later that morning.

 

“I was worried about you, that's all.” she said as Greg took the kettle off the gas and spooned tea from the caddy into the freshly-warmed teapot, topping it up with boiling water.

 

“It’s nice of you, Sally, but I'm fine. Honest.” 

 

“Okay,let's pretend for a minute that I believe you. Are you coming to dinner this afternoon? Mum and Dad will be disappointed if you don't.”

 

Greg poured the tea and handed her a cup.

 

“I wouldn't dare disappoint your mum, I like her cooking too much. Have you heard from the intrepid reporter?” he teased.

 

“Yeah, he seems mad keen to see me again. And he's not too sleazy. Well, for a journalist, anyway.”

 

They chatted for awhile then Greg shooed her out of the flat, promising to see her later. It wasn't till after she'd gone that he wondered why he hadn't said anything about last night. Theorising that he didn't want to jinx it, he got ready for Sunday dinner at the Donovan’s.

 

Mrs Donovan was thrilled with the flowers he bought her, and Greg chatted about football to Sally's father as the meal was being served up. 

 

“Fancy a few jars after dinner, Greg?” asked Mr Donovan in a Dublin accent undiluted after forty years in London.

 

“I'm sorry, Eugene, I can't today. Next time for certain.” said Greg apologetically.

 

“Sure, it's not like you to miss a Sunday in The Shamrock. Would there be a reason?”

 

“Leave the man alone, Eugene,” said Mrs Donovan sharply, glowering at her husband from across the table. He smiled back sheepishly.

 

After a superb meal of underdone beef and Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings, Greg thought he might explode if he ate another mouthful but he still got up to help clear the table.

 

“I wish you'd go with Dad,” grumbled Sally as Greg helped her with the washing-up. “He always gets carried away if he ends up with his mates.”

 

“I can't. “ Greg told her. “I've got a date tonight.”

 

Sally nearly dropped the plate she was holding as her eyes widened and her mouth formed the perfect O. 

 

“With Mycroft?” Greg nodded.

 

“Good for you  Greg. You must have worked it out then?”

 

“Yes, but it's not my secret to tell, okay?”

 

“Okay. I understand.” And Greg realised she did.

 

He bid the Donovans a fond farewell and hurried back to Soho. This was one night he couldn't be late for.

 

The Falcon’s Nest sounded like a grotty pub, but was actually another bookshop owned by one of Greg's rivals, Sam Falconer. As he walked in, he took in the fair-sized crowd and allowed himself a tinge of pride. His shop was much better and he had had a far superior set-up for Mycroft's recital. Judging by what he could see, the attendees would be lucky to get tea and buns. There was no sign of Mycroft, but there was still five minutes to go.

 

“Greg Lestrade,” said an oily voice behind him and he turned to see the unlovely features of San Falconer and he did not look pleased. “You're not on my list of invites. What are you doing in my shop?”

 

“He's here at my invitation, Mr Falconer.” 

 

Mycroft had appeared at Sam's elbow and Greg hid his amusement at the pained expression on his rival's face which morphed into greasy servility.

 

“I'm sorry, Mr Holmes. I didn't realise.”

 

Mycroft's eyes were warm when he looked at Greg, a small smile on his lips, all they dared express in the present company, but Greg felt his spirits soar as he took his seat and listened to Mycroft enthrall, enchant and mesmerize his audience with the power of his words and Greg couldn't wait to get him alone.

 

The applause for Mycroft was thunderous and he took his time answering as many questions as were asked of him, every now and then catching Greg's eye, the promise of seduction in every glance. 

 

They had already agreed not to leave together and Greg waited impatiently in his flat for Mycroft to arrive. When he opened the door to Mycroft's knock, any doubts he had simply vanished as Mycroft followed him up the stairs and took him in his arms.

 

As they kissed, Greg felt no barrier between them this time, any awkwardness he felt disappeared at Mycroft's enthusiastic response, the closeness of their embrace and Mycroft's erection firm against Greg's stomach.

 

Greg took him by the hand and led him to his bedroom where they undressed each other slowly, taking time to touch, caress and stroke till Mycroft lay him down on the bed.

 

“You're so beautiful, Gregory.” he murmured as he climbed in beside him. “A poem made flesh.” and he drew Greg to him.

 

Greg was unsure what to expect, but Mycroft led him gently through each new experience, Greg's nerve endings alive with sensation. Mycroft's weight on him, the broken noises he found himself making at the indescribable pleasure coursing through him, Mycroft's breathy moans as he moved inside him were almost too much to bear until he couldn't hold back any longer and climaxed, taking Mycroft with him.

 

They lay together afterwards, their legs tangling together under the sheet, Greg's head resting on Mycroft's chest as they slowly recovered.

 

“Stay with me,” asked Greg, not wanting to sound too needy but never wanting to let Mycroft out of his sight again. Mycroft's hand continued to stroke Greg's hair 

 

“I will for as long as you want me,” he whispered.

 

Greg smiled. “Well, some of us have work to do tomorrow. We can't all lounge around and wait for our muse to inspire us.”

 

“I might have to spank you for that comment,” huffed Mycroft, trying and failing not to laugh.”Cheeky thing. I do love you so “

 

It was then, with those words, Greg knew they were in it for the long haul.

 

 

The End.


End file.
